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Updated: May 8, 2025
There was no judge in the parquet who had his reputation for breaking down the resistance of obstinate prisoners. "You've got your work cut out," snapped the detective. "He's a stubborn devil." In the midst of these perplexities and technicalities a note was brought in for M. Pougeot.
Many times these quick, haphazard jottings, made in the precious moments immediately following a crime, had proved of incalculable value in the subsequent investigation. In the present case, however, M. Pougeot was fairly taken aback by the lack of significant material.
Careful, there," he said sharply, as their wheels swung dangerously near a stone shelter in the Place de la Concorde. Both Pougeot and Tignol noted with surprise the half-resigned, half-discouraged tone of the famous detective. "You don't mean that you think the American may be guilty?" questioned the commissary. "Never in the world!" grumbled Tignol.
Then, turning to Pougeot: "Oh, he insists on seeing you alone. Only a minute mind!" With a thrill of emotion the commissary entered the silent, darkened room where his friend lay, swathed in bandages and supported on a water bed to lessen the pain. "It's all right Paul," said M. Pougeot, "I've just talked with the doctor." "Thanks, Lucien," answered a weak voice in the white bundle.
"Well?" broke in Pougeot impatiently, but Coquenil gave the woman a reassuring look and she went on to explain that she was a spinster living in a little attic room of the next house, overlooking the Rue Marboeuf. She worked as a seamstress all day in a hot, crowded atelier, and when she came home at night she loved to go out on her balcony, especially these fine summer evenings.
And he turned to light a cigar. Coquenil shook his head. "When do you sail?" "I'm not sailing." "Wha-at?" For once in his life M. Pougeot was surprised. He knew all about this foreign offer, with its extraordinary money advantages; he had rejoiced in his friend's good fortune after two unhappy years, and now now Coquenil informed him calmly that he was not sailing.
M. Pougeot prided himself on reading men's thoughts, but he used to say that he could not even imagine what Coquenil was thinking or fathom the depths of a nature that blended the eagerness of a child with the austerity of a prophet. "Well," remarked the commissary when they were settled in their chairs, "I suppose it's the Rio Janeiro thing? Some parting instructions, eh?"
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